The strong smell of old grease pervaded the room.
“Tyler has been doing the cooking, but he doesn’t know much about food. I’m afraid none of us is very strong on cleaning up.”
“Where’s my room?” Rose asked. If she didn’t lie down soon, she would collapse right here.
“Up there.” George pointed to a ladder leading to the loft. Rose’s spirits sank to rock bottom. Gone were her visions of a sunny room with chintz curtains and a soft bed with plenty of sunshine and fresh air.
Through the open door Rose could tell the loft was barely tall enough for her to stand up in. She just hoped mice hadn’t found their way up there. She was sure doves and owls had already staked out a claim on her bed.
George went out to get her bags while Rose took a closer look at the stove. She shuddered. Dozens of dirty dishes had been piled in a big metal tub. She didn’t want to know how long they had been there. She sincerely hoped maggots hadn’t hatched. She drew the line at dealing with worms.
George came back with her bags.
“I know it’s a mess, but Tyler never washes anything until he has to use it.”
“Apparently neither does anyone else,” she said as George carried her bags up to the loft.
“Sometimes we’re not here for days at a time,” George called down to her.
“It’s probably cleaner in the brush. At least out there it rains once in a while.”
George, descending the ladder, smiled tenuously, but he definitely smiled.
“It does look rather daunting, but I’m sure you’ll have things shipshape in a little while.”
“Some of these dishes look valuable,” Rose said, holding up a bone china plate with an elaborate floral design. “Shouldn’t we use something else?”
The appearance of frigid correctness she had seen so frequently on the trip settled over George.
“We don’t have anything else. We like to eat about seven. I’ll tell the boys you’re here.” He turned to go.
“You’re leaving?” She didn’t think she could take being left just at this moment.
“It’s okay. Tyler and Zac are around. I’ll see if I can scare them up. They’ll tell you anything you need to know.”
“But the food…what do I cook? Where is the pantry?”
“I don’t know. Tyler does all that.”
“What’ll I do until he shows up?” Panic accompanied her developing anger.
“You can start cleaning. It does look a mess in here.”
Then he disappeared. Rose stood stock-still for a moment, then rushed to the door, intending to call him back, to ask him to wait just a moment.
Too late. She saw him ride into the all-engulfing brush. A few moments later, even the sound of his horse’s hooves had died away. Then there was nothing. Nobody. Not a thing.
She was alone.
Turning back to the kitchen, Rose paused without opening the door. She couldn’t face that again, not just yet. She opened the door to the side of the house where they all slept. Even greater chaos reigned there.
The huge room contained a senseless jumble of roughhewn beds, chests, and chairs. Discarded clothes were piled everywhere, even on a shaving stand.
She slammed the door and stumbled into the kitchen. The only good thing she could see in this disaster was that her legs and bottom no longer ached. It was a known fact you couldn’t feel anything if you were totally numb.
Suddenly the enormity of what had happened overwhelmed her. She collapsed into a chair, threw her arms down on the table, let her head sink onto her arms, and sobbed her heart out.
She had been a fool. A complete, idealistic, optimistic, head-in-the-sand fool. After years of watching out for herself, of learning to tell the honest and sincere from the deceitful and hypocritical, of hardening herself to snubs and insults, she had let herself be swept off her feet by the first person to treat her decently.
George Washington Randolph might have moments of kindness, moments when he remembered he had been reared a gentleman and a member of the human race, but he clearly intended to waste none of them on his housekeeper. She would be expected to work like a slave from dawn to dusk, and then crawl into her loft to rest before getting up the next morning to start all over again. Was this the only future that waited for her? Would she never have any of the joy and happiness she had dreamed of?
With a noisy and totally unfeminine sniff, Rose sat up, blew her nose, and looked at the room about her. She supposed there might be worse kitchens in hell, but she found it hard to believe. Anyway, this was her own private hell, and George expected her to clean it up. Furthermore, she had insisted he sign a written agreement. That agreement bound her just as securely as it bound George. She might be depressed and ready to burst into tears again, but no one would ever be able to say she didn’t stand behind her word.